Be Enlightened, Be Empowered, Be EMMboldened

Women

“Woman! I am talking to you! Stop!” I had never heard his voice so deep, and angry before! I was immediately and utterly terrified but also somehow determined to stand my ground; prove my point. After all, he was only bluffing. Vitisho baridi. I shrugged it off, He had to be bluffing! What could he possibly do to me? He was head over heels in love that he would have licked the bottom of my feet if it meant seeing me one more time. But maybe that’s why I should’ve been afraid; maybe that’s why I should have walked away in that moment, HE WOULD’VE DONE ANYTHING! But I didn’t walk away as I should’ve, the huge gulps of whiskey I had taken at the party while we argued on the balcony were racing to my head. I needed to slow down; reevaluate, regroup. I wasn’t even exactly sure I knew why we were arguing, in public no less.

I took a deep breathe while he approached me. Even before I turned to meet his gaze I could feel the intensity of his rage increase with every step. Leave, the little voice in my head whispered.

“What?” I tried to sound as rude as well as composed as I could but my shaky and breathy voice must have given me away.

“What. The. Fuck was that!” The rage in his voice intensified, the nostrils flared with every pause.

“What?” I was oblivious at this point; more so than I had been all night.

“You’re embarrassing me! Throwing yourself around like a cheap piece of trash.”

“I was hugging my friends! You made me leave; the least I could do was say bye.” I was completely calm now, I thought. I took out my flask and took another huge swig of whiskey. He knocked it out of my hand before I was done.

“You’re such a fucking whore!” He sneered. “I’m dating the town whore!” He shouted so loud that ‘our friends’ stopped in their tracks a few meters ahead of us. They didn’t rush to us however, they just stood there and watched; ‘minding their own business’. I turned to walk away. I was not about to be insulted on the streets. He was used to doing it in private but in public I would not stand for it. I hadn’t completed my first two steps yet and he was suddenly in front of me. His eyes burned red with the effects of whiskey and rage. It was at this point, I began to realize that I would have been better off somewhere else, anywhere else than in this moment in this situation with him. He drew even closer to me. I flinched.

“Admit it! You’re fucking all of them!” I could feel his breath on my face, I could immediately tell that he had had much more than I had. None of us were in their rightest mind. I withdrew from the fumes, only for him to grab me by the shoulders and restore me to my original position; as close to his face as I could get.

“Let go of me!” My breath was labored, I was petrified, horrified. I could see his friends watching us from a far now, watching, doing nothing. I wanted to scream or wiggle till I broke free but I remained there locked in his embrace frozen, except he wasn’t embracing me but entrapping me for slaughter.

“Not until you stop playing me like a fool.” He tightened his grip and began to shake me. “Tell me which one you’re giving it to when I’m not around. Tell me which one you go visit when you leave me. Tell me.”

“I don’t…. There’s….. No one!” I stuttered, shouted and wiggled; trying to get myself free. He didn’t believe me. He had the answer already made up in his head; anything different just made him angrier.

“I swear……..” He breathed hard through his pause into my face, nostrils flaring, bloodshot eyes fixed on mine. “I’ll kill you! I will kill you right here in the middle of the street. In front of your new boyfriend’s fancy house. I don’t care!” It didn’t seem like he was bluffing anymore. The conviction in his eyes was unmistakable; he was going to kill me, in the middle of the street in front of his friends and mine if they cared enough to follow me out of that party.

Even now, I still do not understand my reaction to this particular threat. Maybe I was just fed up with being caged and controlled then accused falsely, maybe I just wanted to push his buttons or maybe I just have a death wish because even in my agony, horror and fear, I replied so brazenly, “All of them.”

“What?” His eyes narrowed as he stepped closer to me.

“You heard me! I’m fucking ALL. OF. THEM! ALL THE TIME. Each and every person in that room. The men, the women and if they had a dog, I’d fuck it too. I am that unsatisfied by you!” He said nothing. Feeling emboldened, I went on. “Why are you so quiet now? Are you surprised that the ‘town whore’ is an actual whore? You’re a …” I do not remember how I planned to end that sentence. All I remember is his hand going across my face so fast and so hard that everything went black for a second or two and I fell to the floor. When I came to, he wasn’t done. He kicked me hard in my stomach and leaned over to pick me up by my collar. I resisted forcing him to grab my braided hair and drag me towards him so that he could punch my face a little more before he picked me up by my collar and brought my face towards his.

My eyes had begun to swell up with pain and tears so I could not see if anyone was coming to help me. When he went across my face again, I was sure I was on my own so I began to scream. I don’t recall ever screaming that loudly; I do recall wailing and crying out “Kill me Coward! Kill me!” He held me up this time so I didn’t fall when he slapped me; and he didn’t stop. I tried to put my hands over my face to shield myself but instead he pushed me to the ground and began kicking me again. I could only protect my face at this point. I could feel him pounding my stomach, chest and knees. I was still relentlessly screaming when I looked up to see ‘our friends’ watching him beat the living daylights out of me. They looked shocked but did not even attempt to get him off me until I began to cough out large mounds of scarlet blood on to the pavement floor. As they dragged him off me, he hurled insults and affirmations of my worthlessness not forgetting to remind me that he could still find me and kill me if he pleased.

***

I wish that was the last time I saw him, but it was not. After his friends dragged him off to places unknown, I remember lying on the ground in fetal position for a while, wailing silently. I didn’t want to get up; I had essentially given up. If you’d have asked at that moment, I probably would’ve said I was waiting for him to come back and kill me. I must have lay there for about five minutes before a tall dark man came to me. The look on his face was both worried and full of disgust. He extended his hand to help me up then offered to walk me home; which I declined but he insisted just in case the perpetrator came back to finish me off. While we walked, he plied me with stories of his youth and of how his father would beat his poor mother almost daily. He offered me every domestic violence cliché in the book, which I took in heartily at the moment. If you asked me in that moment, just as he did, what I planned to do about my “woman-beating boyfriend”. I would have probably answered you like I answered him “I’m leaving him. In fact, we are not even together anymore. I do, I did. I am done. Finished. Finito. Yameisha. ”

When the young man saw that I was safe and sound in my own apartment, he left assuring me that I was strong enough to get past this. “I don’t know you, but I know you are a strong independent woman. You can get through this.” He said. And for a good second or three, I really felt like this strong woman this stranger thought me to be. However, eventually just like a cliché, It dawned on me that I was not going to leave him, just yet. I knew that I was too weak to do it, too scared, too pathetic. I knew the stranger who helped me home had good intentions but I didn’t owe him anything. To the man who battered me, I owed a lot including love and devotion and even though he had almost killed me in the streets in front of numerous witness, I felt indebted to him and his troubled soul. Because the man was basically nothing without me and he was painfully aware of it especially in public. He would be back and I would oblige because to leave him would mean to do to him far worse than he had done to me; it would be to take away his life’s purpose, his essence, his calling, his one and only. The man needed me and he was only insecure because he sensed that I did not need him quite as much, rather I wanted him. Wants fade, needs prevail.

It took him three days, almost exactly to return on his knees. His eyes bloodshot; he had been crying for a while, drinking for as long. The state of his dressing was dismal; he was wearing the same clothes as the last time I saw him; only now they were stained, torn, much like our relationship at that point. I have always been a sucker for a bugger in need; so when he fell on my door step, I did as any naïve woman who was still in love with her abuser would do, I dragged him to the apartment, bathed him, fed him and nursed him. At the time, it really felt like just what our relationship needed; a misfortune to remind us how important we were to each other and a change in power play, where he was humbled and I seemed to hold all the power.

I have always wanted to believe that he would stay that way; humbled, a little wounded, broken, as it was the only time I really felt deep affection between us. Maybe this was because he was an overly cruel man or because back then I craved the feeling of being needed rather than being wanted. But naivety is a shelter only the weak and the blind can hide under, and he reverted to normalcy soon enough; exactly three weeks since his return. It started with tiny seemingly meaningless disagreements; his temperament was off, suddenly he was always irritable and even the slightest of irregularities sent him into a full on shouting rage. At this point, I had learned to mutter my tongue, not to patronize him even with the truth. I would be silent most of the time. However, that would begin to patronize him too after a while and we would revert to past violent situations. He would punch me in the stomach or slap my face if I said something that he didn’t feel pleased him. The financial state we were in at the time didn’t do much to help the situation. He wouldn’t work and could not be compelled to do anything much less provide for the household, yet whenever we ran short on food and other household items he would blame me solely and discipline me accordingly. Yes, that is what he called it now, not battery or assault or violence, but discipline.

I did not know that one could be disciplined by one who laid no claim to her, until then. I felt like a child; an abused child. All shows of affections resembled rape to me. Conversations remained one sided. This man owned me; and all because I felt I owed him and his troubled soul some love and devotion.

At this point, it began to be evidently clear that I should have left when that young Good Samaritan told me to. How was I going to leave the man who had threatened severally and almost succeeded in killing me? He knew where I lived and worked, all my friends and family. There was no hiding. I had tried to fight before and lost badly. I had to stay with him, pathetic and unappealing as he had become or he would kill me, or so I thought

The night I left is one that will sit with me for years. A story I plan to pass on to generations of young women likely to be caught up like I was. He came home, wrecking of cheap brew as usual. I had had a particularly bad day. You see at the time, I had been forced to keep a kitchen garden and sell produce at the local market to provide for our household; some days were better than others. It was, of course, a far cry from my desk job and dream career but he had been getting in the way; asking me to quit jobs because he was jealous of my colleagues, keeping imprisoned in the house so much, that sometimes I lost my job for the absenteeism – I wasn’t going to admit that my psychotic boyfriend was too jealous to let me attend my day job. I felt that gardening would not present a similar problem in his eyes; so I took it up. It made significantly less but the disagreements subsided for a hot second. He then began to drink a lot; a lot more than I could afford. He would meet me on my way from the market in the evening and ask what I had made. I would subsequently pull whatever money I had on me at the time and give it to him; a verbal answer would get me slapped around in public. If I made too little, he would immediately conclude that I spent my day gossiping in the market and subsequently drag me home for a thorough beating. If I made too much, I had used my feminine assets to solicit it from the men at the market, marketing myself he called it, and drag me home for a beating. So naturally, every evening began with a beating and ended with him staggering in drunk after drinking away all my day’s earnings. This particular day, we had had the normal evening squabble on my way home from the market. We had gotten home and he had slapped me around until he was satisfied and walked out of the house with the normal array of insults in his mouth. He always called me the same thing; lazy, ugly, tired/old, prostitute and barren whore. He was creative with the order of the insults but not entirely the words themselves.

When he came back, I had fallen asleep on the old couch waiting for him as I usually did; not opening the door for your man is a punishable offense. He came in all hot and bothered, sweating from the brow, eyes red with rage. The discussion at the local bar must have been about children or something of the sort because he came in swinging immediately I opened the door. I was sprawling on the floor before he even stepped foot past the door. He came in after me, shouting “Today you leave so that I find a woman to bear me children. I will beat until you return to wherever you came from.” He had kicked me a few times before I saw fit to begin crawling to safety. Obviously, safety for me was not what he was aiming for as he pulled me back by my leg to lay a few more punches on my face every time I tried to get away. Seeing as there was no escape, I decided on defense of the vital organs; my face came to mind. Putting my arms over my face, he went in kicking me viciously in the stomach until I stopped squirming. He then decided that he had been going about it wrong; he should have just dragged me outside and beaten me from there, which he did eventually. Seeing as I was covering my face and no longer wincing at each kick to the stomach, he went for the back of my head, kicking with what felt like all the strength he could master. I eventually passed out in the kitchen garden outside my apartment, the only possession I really owned.

When I finally came to, he had gone into the house and locked himself in. He must have been sleeping off his drunken state. I sat up among my tomatoes and cabbages contemplating my next move. I would have sat there forever had it not been for the sharp pain in the abdomen. It came in what felt like long powerful waves of piercing pain. When I finally managed to get on my feet, I felt a dark thick strip of blood trickle down my leg. I didn’t feel like I had the capacity to address whatever was happening down there, so I began walking to safety. I had no relatives in the city and I had fallen out with most of my friends on account of my devotions to this man. I didn’t exactly know what a safe place was to me at this point, I only knew that as long as there was enough distance between me and him, I’d be fine. I can’t tell for certain how long I walked before I passed out again, from what I can only imagine was the blood loss and the result of the blunt force trauma to the back of my head.

When I came to again, the vicinity had changed, drastically. I saw a bright beaming light that reflected off great white surfaces. I thought I was in heaven finally. The IV tube in my hand confirmed otherwise. I was in a hospital. Now at the time, I was at such a low point in my life that the first thing that came to my mind was I can’t afford to be here. I immediately started to break free of the IV tube and the tightly tucked sheets. A friendly nurse was at my side soon, urging me to calm down. It took a few minutes of struggle and a threat of sedation to get me calm. The nurse then excused herself to get a doctor to brief me on my ‘situation’.

A few moments later, a short stern-looking man came in dressed in a white coat, which burned my eyes as it reflected the light in the room. He drew the curtains around us and sat at the foot of the bed. The look on his face was one of pity and remorse, one that affirmed that I was not doing great.

“Mama, what is your name? You came in with no identification.”

“My name is Vivian. “ My voice was low; I was still groggy from meds.

“Vivian, are you married?” I shook my head. “Well, you came in with severe injuries consistent with a violent altercation. Vivian, did you know that you were…,” He paused as if to process what he was about to say, “Did you know you were expectant?” My heart immediately sank, the thought of bringing a child into the life I was running from nauseated me.

“What? That cannot be. “

“Well, unfortunately, you sustained a lot of trauma to the womb. We…” He gauged my reaction. “We did all we could but we couldn’t save the child.”

“You mean the fetus?” He was confused. I showed no remorse for the death of this thing I was growing. Actually, I seemed relieved that the child had died; how couldn’t I be. This thing was about to tether me to an abusive man for the rest of its life and I could not resent it and it was illegal to kill it. I thanked my lucky stars that that night like many nights he had beat me for the very last time; for if he hadn’t, a few months down the line I’d be a heavily pregnant lady gardening and getting battered daily. I am actually thankful in thinking that I was barren he killed our child, for that only would have kept me caged and controlled for at least 21 years. As the short doctor walked away to ‘give me a moment to process’, I began to laugh out loud at my luck.

Like this:

“Peeeerfect!” Elsie calmly exclaimed to herself while she twirled in front of her large mirror, admiring the difference effort made in her appearance. Rocket by Beyoncé played softly in the background, the room was dark and only a few rays of light managed to penetrate the Brown and gold curtains. There was a soft knock at the door. Elsie eyed herself top to bottom then gave herself a reassuring look. “You are ready.” She walked to the door a few metres away and drew a deep breath before opening it. The man at the door stood firm as if planted like a tree. His face showed a passionate determination for the intention of his visit. It made sense how he immediately furrowed his thick eyebrows and curled his large lips in curiosity. He stepped forward to give Elsie an awkward hug, running his hands along her frame just for good measure. “So where is everybody? I thought you invited me to a party.” He said while he drew away from her. “They all cancelled. It’s just you and me!” She said grinning, aware that he knew she was lying. She took his hand leading him to her sofa. Puzzled, he followed her, unable to keep his eyes off her; She didn’t mind that was her intention after all.

In a low seductive voice, she looked down at him, settling into the sofa. “Are you thirsty?” He stared at her frame, taking every inch of her in, caressing her curves with his eyes, examining her gentle silhouette with his mind. He couldn’t tell if he was being seduced or being trapped; but he knew that he no longer had much power in this situation.

“What?” He exclaimed; a little offended. She brushed it off with a timid giggle. “I mean, do you want anything to drink? Silly!” He shook his head slowly while she took her seat right next to him on the couch.

“I gotta make a confession. I’m proud of all this bass when you ……” She moved a little closer to him as Beyoncé put her in an even fierier mood. She could hear him breathing heavily and his heart racing. Elsie’s was working. She smiled and turned to him; instinctively moving closer still. She placed her hand gently over his thigh. In her best version of a soft seductive voice, Elsie began to engage him in visibly unnecessary small talk. Running her fingers softly across his bearded face as he spoke. The little tremors in his deep voice run up and down her spine and straight to ignite her loins. His beard so perfectly outlined his face, giving him an aura of authority and power; it left her powerless sailing helplessly in his voice as it carried her to a place she knew was not hers to hold.

Her weakness bred nostalgia; back to the brief time before she found out the truth. The chemistry they had shared was electric, almost explosive. Every day she found out something new about him she liked, something she had been looking for in a man for years. That was, of course, until the truth has reared its ugly head, and in public, no less. There was an altercation and a wig had been taken in the cross fire and even though it wasn’t her wig and the other girl had looked a lot worse, she felt low and ashamed by the lengths she had been forced to stoop to. Granted the other girl threw the first punch and Elsie had no knowledge of her before this, she still felt horrid to the core for beating up another woman and for a man no less. A man she had just met, a man who had lied for six months.

“How is she?” She cut him off sharply mid-sentence.

“Who?”

“You know! Katherine.” She began to look away and move away from him as well. Maybe a reflection of what she felt deep inside; drawn to this man so much until she was reminded he belonged to another.

“You mean, Catie” He corrected her, ignoring her obvious discomfort, “She is…. She’s well, I guess. What do you want me to say?”

“Say that she’s dead, maybe?? I don’t f*cking know. I don’t think I even care.” Elsie turned to face him now, keenly judging his expression. He was speechless. She wanted him to break down and vehemently profess his love for her. She wanted him to cry and ask the higher powers why he met Katherine before he met her but he just sat there. His face showing nothing but guilt. The guilt of man who clearly had no idea what he wanted for himself and the future; one who had dragged Elsie, Kathrine and whoever else into his confusion for nothing else but in an attempt to make himself feel better about his grave insecurity and lack of self-esteem. That’s why he couldn’t be faithful to his pregnant fiancée, that is why he had to lie to get her interested in the first place and keep her there. Sitting there, looking at the guilt in his hazel eyes and his furrowed brow like that of a dog that had just did the dirty behind the couch, she felt immense sympathy for him, even more for Katherine. That poor naïve girl, she was probably somewhere fending off valid advances from men who understood themselves enough to allow her to simply exist and be loved, men who probably valued fidelity more than money and cheap promises. This man before her, ‘her man’ was a mess and in the confusion and chaos that was his life, Elsie was the only stable thing, the rock per se. She had it all figured out; her happiness that is. Elsie was content with who she was even when no one was around; clearly he wasn’t. He made up versions of himself to fit in and always found himself lying to everybody. The façade he had once put up that had drawn Elsie so painstakingly close to him, now crumbled into dust. And even though to society he seemed far ahead in life, almost married at the right age no less, first child on the way too; Elsie had already won the race even without a man or any prospects of love and marriage thereof. Most especially, without this mess of a man! Elsie would be anything but a Katherine; sitting at home reproducing while your partner paid no regard to your feelings, sanity or reputation. Oh how miserable. But Elsie, she was the real deal, a catch by any definition. And even though, she had fallen fast and hard for this man, Elsie was not a side piece, she was the Feature Presentation, the main attraction and the full meal.

“Follow me.” She said suddenly, leading him to her room.

***

He rolled over, panting. Elsie sat up, reached towards the night stand and pulled out a cigarette as he caught his breath. Elsie sat quietly for two minutes, smoking, eyes fixed on a painting stark in the middle of the wall in front of her. What they had just done, in Elsie’s opinion, was nothing to write home about. She could still hear him breathing heavily on her thigh. She hadn’t even broken a sweat, she just sat there, newly assured that this man, his pregnant fiancée and their impending offspring were nothing to fight for, not even worth shouting for. They would only make her life miserable like theirs. He raised his head to say something. Elsie didn’t hear him; all she could hear was an irritating shrillness in his voice. Suddenly, she wasn’t interested in looking at his face anymore. In fact, she wasn’t interested in having his company any more. As what she could only describe as the hormones in her brain regulated and her heart began to beat at a regular pace, she had an epiphany; one that even she knew she should have seen from the beginning. Suddenly, as if he had flipped on a switch, she knew what to do; pick up her crown and banish the wicked, like the Queen she was.

“You feel pretty great about yourself, don’t you?” She asked condescendingly. His naivety did not grasp it.

“Well as a matter of fact I do. I just put in some serious work. I think I broke some sort of record.”

“I wouldn’t say you broke a record but you have definitely hit a new mile stone.” He smiled at himself,

“What milestone could this be?” He said smiling stupidly, leaning in to kiss her. She turned away and gave him a cheek.

“That is the last time you will be afforded such privileges. “

“What??”

“Yeah! You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve me. I don’t know this Kathy lady but you don’t deserve her either.”

“What do you mean, Babe? And it’s Catie, by the way.”

“I don’t care if her name is Katrina or Kate Winslet. You don’t deserve my love, you conniving piece of crap. You go around lying to women because you are not man enough to handle the shortcomings of your own character. You have them thinking it’s their fault you’re a cold distant asshole incapable of keeping it in his pants.” She looked at him right in his hazel eyes now, they had no effect on her whatsoever. “Oh? Now you are quiet? Because you know it’s true. You are literally nothing if not a bad boyfriend. You kept a secret for what? Six months. Here I was, building foundations with you and you were engaged to be married and planning to impregnate your poor poor fiancée. I say it twice, because it is really that sad.” She stood up. “You are a really sorry excuse for a man and I’m so happy she had you first.”

He sat on the bed now, facing away from her. He vividly couldn’t handle what Elsie was saying. He must have not been used to it. He was indeed a sorry excuse for a man; insecure and unfaithful he didn’t deserve two great women let alone just one.

“Get out.”

He turned to look at her. He was silent.

“I said Get the F*ck out!”

THE END

Disclaimer: The characters and events depicted in this short story published on EmmBoldened.com are fictitious. Any similarities with actual people and events are PURELY COINCIDENTAL. However, the author of this piece would like to insist that if indeed the shoe fits, then you better lace that shit up and wear it.

Like this:

Her palms were sweating through the handkerchief she held in them. She tapped her foot on the tiled floor nervously. Her heart pounded so loudly that she heard every beat. She shifted in her seat, glancing towards the door. She figured she could make it out of the restaurant fast enough that she would not run in to him on her way out. She pushed her seat back with her and was preparing to get up and run when the waitress came to her with a smile, “Can I get you a drink while you wait? Maybe some bread for the table?” She leaned back, looking at the waitress while she made up her mind. “Actually, yes! Can I get a cocktail?”

“Which one? We have our house cocktail ‘the club special’; we also have a Pinacolada that has won some awards. Oh and….” The waitress was overly eager.

“Which is your strongest?” She cut her off rather crudely. She definitely was not interested in their award winning cocktail ingredients.

“Well, it kind of depends. We make them very mild to suit everyone but we can increase the alcoholic content at your request. Say! For instance……”

“Ok. Good! Get me your Club Special with the maximum alcohol content you are allowed for it.” She cut her off again. She wasn’t in the mood for friendly human interaction.

“Ok, Ma’am.” The waitress was still at it. “And may I ask? Do you prefer a slice of……” She had really had it with this perky cheerful drop of freaking sunshine waitress so she gently placed her arm on hers.

“Sweetie. I know you’re doing your job and you know what? You’re great at it.” The waitress’ eyes sparkled, indicating that this was not a thing she heard very often. “But I’m not in a chirpy, hyperactively good customer service mood. So get me your club special, lots of booze and no ice. No fruit, No vegetables, nothing. That’s it! Can you do that, honey?” The waitress nodded and skipped away.

She turned towards the door again. She was now facing a new variable to her calculations. She was now evaluating the possibility of escape before her drink or her date had arrived. She got out her phone. It is was 15 minutes past the hour. He was late, a little but still late. She didn’t know if this fact brought relief or anger. Did she want him to be late? Did this momentary lapse of punctuality raise a red flag that she was not yet aware of? Did this mean he was always late and she should get used to it? Was he standing her up? Had he forgotten about her? Or did he hear something from someone about her? It must have been something he heard or something he researched. With Google and online government databases, not to mention that ‘the incident’ was indeed public knowledge, he must have found out. Once again she regretted it; the party, the assault report, the dreadful court case, everything.

It had been exactly 2 years, 8 months and 13 days since she was raped by men, no monsters, whom she had assumed were her friends and she had never really been the same afterwards. Maybe it was the betrayal by friends she’d held dear, or the unnecessary intense scrutiny she had received reporting the case, Maybe, it was the case itself and the way her school’s publication followed every motion, every ruling, Maybe it was just the rape. The whole thing had changed her so much. She was once outgoing, overly social and extremely friendly; the real life of the party. But one fatefully rainy day in November, her charismatic strengths led her to her impending doom. She in her third year of Veterinary School and so far she was enjoying every part of it. Her grades were good, she was sufficiently involved in campus activities and she had made friends, most of the male variety, but only because not a lot of women glamorized the care of farm animals like she did, but it wasn’t something that had bothered her much. One Friday in November, she was invited for a small after-school get together. The message had said, “Lots of food, music and drinks. Bring your own girl.” At the time, she giggled at the sentiment that each was to appear with a female companion. At the same time, she was relieved that she wouldn’t be the only female attending this party. Friday evening rolled through swiftly, she walked with a few of her closest study buddies to an off-campus residence apparently belonging to a friend of a friend. They said he didn’t mind a bunch of strangers partying at his house, he actually enjoyed it. On their way there, Bessie did what she assumed was research; diligently asking Kobe if he knew this guy enough to trust him. He didn’t really know him. She asked Patrick and Phil (Short for Philemon) the same, they gave no more detailed answers than Kobe. She stopped dead in her tracks, the boys soon after she did. She said, “Guys, are we sure about this? I mean I love a party just as much as the next girl but I don’t know how I feel about this.” The men were quick to calm her with words like, “You’re going with us aren’t you? We’ll make sure nothing fishy happens. Don’t worry. He’s Jay’s Friend. We’re all friends, aren’t we?” Looking back, she now knew that was the moment she should have turned back and walked straight to her hostel a few paces away. She wished she did, but instead she believed these friends of hers and walked on towards her personal Armageddon.

It was twenty minutes past the hour now. The overly cheerful waitress returned with her drink and enough sense not to say much to her. Her date was now twenty minutes late and counting. She stirred her drink with her straw before she took it out and took a large swig of her drink. It was strong but for the kind of day she was having, it wasn’t strong enough. She would need a few more if she was to make it to the end of this evening and even more to spend the evening on this date. You see, Bessie had been having a totally normal day when she received a message to a friend with a link. “Gang Rape at Veterinary School: Do you know what you’re children are doing while away?” Her heart had sunk at the moment when the headline popped up on the screen. It hadn’t returned to normalcy yet. She knew the court case was public record but she had never assumed that some journalist would use it. Apart from her rescuer and a few friends, no one knew what had happened. The school publication had been smart enough to redact all facts that led to her identity. Despite this fact, she had not returned to school after that. She dropped out and convinced her parents that she was more into entrepreneurship now. She wished she had let her parents know exactly what happened that November Night. But now the damage was pretty much done. There was no saving face or damage control at this point. The stage at which she had arrived required truthfulness and courage to relive the incident every time she told it. It was excruciating to think about. She hadn’t read the article all the way through, just the headline was enough to send her stomach into painful knots. She got out her phone. It had been off since she read the headline; she wasn’t quite ready for the mental torture. She would see if she was now. She powered it up. The tiny aluminum colored device began to dance on the table violently; everyone was looking for Bessie. Her name must have leaked in the article as her phone vibrated violently seeking her attention. She ignored the messages, she wasn’t in the mood to be pitied and judged all at the same time.

The headline had already made it to her browser’s news reel. She clicked on the headline. As it loaded at what seemed to be a snail’s pace, she could already tell that even though the headline seemed generalized and informative, the article was specific to her case and vindictive. For why, even though he thought he was serving the greater good, would a journalist publish her name and all the particulars of the case without asking if he should share or conceal her, the victim’s identity. The first thing that she saw on the website was her school ID picture. She must have been 17 when that was taken. The caption read ‘Beatrice, now 20, was forced to drop out after she was unable to convince the school administration that her rape was not her fault.’

“What?” Bessie exclaimed loudly. Everyone turned in their seats to look at her. She did not notice. She began reading the article. And as if the publicity surrounding her rape were not enough, the author of the article all but asserted that Bessie caused her own rape. He used quotes like ‘A girl like Beatrice is known to play hard to get in the daylight and let too loose in the evening. These girls tease our boys then get intoxicated around them expecting them to express nothing but self-control and awe for their tiny outfits’ Again, her inner voice reminded her that reading this article would cause nothing but harm and emotional trauma. She had to police her heart, her therapist had always insisted. You mustn’t allow yourself to be exposed to triggers for your condition. That’s what he called it, a condition. At first, it had bothered her so she asked that he called an illness meaning that it was curable. He had declined stating that it was in fact incurable but optimistically he added that it was a treatable condition. She stared at her phone. She should have been calling the therapist or at least her date but instead she kept reading the foulest words she had ever heard or read about herself. This time she focused on seeing if any of her rapists had been mentioned. Then another quote ‘Your sons like these young men charged with the alleged rape of Beatrice are being lured like snake bait and then arrested for giving in to their most primal urges. Ludicrous!’

“Ludicrous?” She was laughing now while she spoke out aloud. “It’s not ludicrous to be a rapist in the first place?” When she looked up from her laughter, her date stood before her gazing at her. She composed herself quite quickly and said hello. He replied taking his seat across from her.

“Why you’re in a good mood for a girl whose date is half an hour late. What are you reading there?” He gestured at her phone. She instinctively covered the phone not wanting to bring up the whole article or rape thing and looked straight in his eyes. They gleamed with curiosity behind the gleaming was a sparkle that you could not miss. The sparkle in the eye of a man about to crown his queen. This man had been obsessed with her for a few months now and she couldn’t figure out why. They never did anything other than meet for meals and talk. He had always been a gentleman and never even asked why he was never permitted to ask her out on a more intimate date. Most guys gave up at around the third month of expensive lunches and fancy coffees but here he was, eight months later, with that damn sparkle in his stupid big brown eyes. Why didn’t he just give up? Why didn’t he just run!

“So? What’s so ludicrously funny?” He leaned forward, placed his hand over hers and looked deep into her eyes. She was uncomfortable, blood rushing to her face. She began to breathe heavily, deeply as if taking him in, all of him.

“It’s nothing. Just this article.” She wasn’t going to say anything more but somehow it just slipped out. “It’s about me actually. I made the news.” His face lit up.

“Can I read it?” She glanced at his hands over her hands over her phone. It felt like a crude metaphor for what would be of their relationship when she showed him. To reveal what had happened to her, would require her to detach from him first; for her to see him, not as a potential lover, but as a stranger or a plutonic buddy. In her mind, there was no way for them to continue down the path of love after he knew what happened to her.

“No. You can’t. I shouldn’t be reading it either.” His face cringed, he withdrew one palm from the table then the next.

“Why?” The look in his eye was less loving and more curious now. Bessie looked him genuinely trying to decide if her rape was coffee house conversation or pillow talk or one of those ‘never’ conversations. How would this man react to hearing what he wants has been had over and over again by force over her screaming and kicking? He could tell she was battling something deep within. He reached out for her hands again. She withdrew, leaving him to cuff her wrists. She tried to break free, the sensation of his hands around her wrists feeling oddly the same as that night. A feeling of restraint, not affection. Phil had held her down, just like that. She tried again. He wouldn’t let go. He was looking at her squirm and obsess like a caged animal. It seemed absurd, since he didn’t mean to restrain her but to keep her from withdrawing from the conversation. He let go eventually with a heavy sigh; he gave up trying to pry it out of her.

“I read it, Bessie.”

“What?”

“I read the article. It’s everywhere, I’m sorry.” She looked away, fighting back tears with every fibre of her being. He continued speaking, “Frankly, it was distasteful and in my opinion, downright disgusting.” Bessie buried her face in her hands, realising that she couldn’t fight the tears anymore. “I know this is not how you wanted to break it to me. I know maybe you didn’t want to break it to me at all. I know you’re scared that what those animals did to you will follow you forever. I know this article kind of reinforces this fear.” She looked up now, scrambling for a napkin to dry her eyes. He continued while she blew her nose noisily, “It’s not your fault. It can’t even be. I wasn’t there, I know that but I also know you. You are kind-hearted and cheerful and no one!” He took her hands in his, looking her directly in the eyes which at this point felt like a dagger to her soul. “No one, Bessie, least of all you deserves such hostility and injustice. They tried to strip you of your soul, your being and your essence, yet here you are standing tall exuding strength and bravery that I could only dream of. I know you thought I’d run; for a hot second I thought I would too; but how? How could I leave a gem just because it is buried somewhere beneath the surface? I couldn’t possibly leave when I know that I will not, no, cannot find someone as brave as strong as the queen who sits before me. “

THE END

Disclaimer: The characters and events depicted in this short story published on EmmBoldened.com are fictitious. Any similarities with actual people and events are PURELY COINCIDENTAL. However, the author of this piece would like to INSIST that if indeed the shoe fits, then you better lace that shit up and wear it.

It’s Monday morning; I’m moody. Don’t think that makes much of a difference cause every Emm Morning is a Moody Morning but I digress. A co-worker, who also doubles as a friend walks up to me and begins to speak. At the utterance of my name, I shoot her down assuming that she wants to indulge me in some vain-themed conversation about weaves or handbags. (My first mistake) She walks away. The energy in that room should have told me I fucked up; but being as anti-social as I am, I don’t notice. (My second mistake) Few minutes later, she’s at my desk confronting me about how I had behaved earlier. I give a vague excuse; I’m Monday Morning Moody. (My third mistake) She doesn’t buy it. She eventually tells me that the reason why she had wanted to speak to me in the first place was that she had just discovered “EmmBoldened” and it inspired her; she wanted to exchange some ideas, maybe collaborate on a few pieces. My heart sinks; there are genuine tears in my eyes. Let me tell you why.

You see as much as I’m the loudest feminist in every room I enter, I’m not a very good one. I think it stems from my youth, but I’ll get to that. I feel horrible because I dismissed my friend. We’ve never had a deep conversation about our experiences as women so I didn’t view her as ‘my kind of woman’. She lives the life of the average woman; so I never ever for a second imagined that she had some sort of feminist agenda like I do. A few genuine conversations in, I can tell she has something to say; something similar to what I keep saying. It’s almost as if I imagined that you had to be overweight, single or bitter to fathom my concept of feminism. I am deeply ashamed to admit that I am a feminist who judges other feminists.

Let me take a few to diagnose myself. I am who I am because of how I grew up. I’ve told you guys enough times, I was a frampy kid; a bit overweight, too smart for my own good and with enough social anxiety to keep me quiet and invisible. Girls did not like me; actually people did not like me because I barely spoke, when I did I almost always made you feel dumb and also I wasn’t very pretty to look at till I turned about 13. So throughout the early primary school years, a lot of mean girl stuff happened to me and most of the time I wouldn’t speak to defend myself. I was once blamed for petty stuff like stealing someone’s something and since I mostly hung out alone I had no alibi. In the end, I found out she stole it herself to get me in trouble. Girls would read my diaries out loud in class (yes, this happened twice. I stopped keeping a diary after that), spread outrageous rumors about me (Say hello to the girl who supposedly dealt narcotics when she was 13, I have still never even done them) and the best of them, call me out all the fucking time in public where I did not thrive. (I don’t want to detail this one, still hold some childhood trauma). Up until I was about 17, I had never kept a female friend for more than a school term (usually about 3months). (No I am not counting my sister, who beat the shit out of most of the girls mentioned above, Thanks Romie) So I have always been skeptical about being friends with women. They never seemed to pan out in the end or were actually just fake from the beginning. Now, I know I have projected this onto almost every average woman I have met since. by average, I mean women who are not weird off the bat. I keep my distance and wear my life stories close to the vest. In so doing, it’s not entirely a surprise that most people that know me don’t know why I’m still single, why I don’t believe in marriage or soulmates or even why I don’t want children and these are integral parts of my feminist self. Let’s be honest, a feminist that cannot connect with other women no matter their background is a shitty feminist. I am a shitty feminist.

The events of this Monday morning sent into a mental tailspin; picking up on all the side shade I throw at women I don’t know or understand just because they don’t look like me. It sent me back to all the comments I have made about women who cross me on the street wearing too much make-up. Who I am to say that make-up is too much, to her it’s just enough. It got me thinking about all the women I laughed at because they were freezing their asses in micro-minis at the club. Who am I to declare that her clothes don’t match the weather, she felt it did. All the women I judged for dating older men for their money. Who the fuck am I to declare that dating for money is a crime or a social vice. How I ask not to be faulted for not wanting children while I fault others for wanting them too early or too bad? I have lived my life running away from social standards while deep down I set them for all those around me. Who the Fuck do I think I am!! Women can do whatever they want and if I am not a testimony to that, I don’t know. How am I fighting the patriarchy yet bringing down equality between women themselves? How do I scream, “Let me be” while I can’t let others be. It almost seems as if its not women’s equivalence to men I want, its mine. I want to be held equivalent without holding others the same.

Now sneer at me all you want but I’m not the only one. Some of us are guilty too. Or have never made a comment that supported the rape of a random lady because you were too conservative to wear what she was wearing. “Now if she gets raped, looking like that, who will she blame?” The rapist that’s who! Have you never judged a pretty girl because she was just better looking and attracted more male attention; called her a ‘whore’ or something worse because what you desired came so much easier to her. We are women and that’s just what we do, right? WRONG! We are feminists and we refuse to grow up competing with each other for what really comes down to men’s approval. It’s what society wants but it’s not what feminism entails. For me, I have seen the error of my foolish and even more selfish ways; and if you watch this space, you will see me collaborate with all kinds of women on everything woman and woman adjacent; fashion, hair, feminism, female oppression, domestic violence. If it’s for women, I want to write about it, I want to talk about it. Because she is you and you are her. I am you and you are me. We all jump the same huddles.

Now, allow me to make one more declaration, the last I will ever impose in a woman. I will steal it from some Mexican women protesting sexual violence a few years ago, “Ni santas, ni putas, solo mujeres” “No saints, No whores, Just women” We cannot win this very real war by putting each other down and the first step to correcting a mistake is admitting it. I admit I can be a hella bitch to other women sometimes and I also admit it almost never has anything to do with them. To you that I have judged, I apologize and make this public declaration to pick women up or shut my mouth for as long as I live. (Yes, you can hold me to it) Feminism is about your choice to be whomever you want and as a fellow feminist I refuse to stand in your way and promise to pay you enough encouragement and compliments to get you there. You are no saint, you are no whore, you are just a woman and that in itself is enough for me.

Like this:

I struggled with the words to this particular piece more than I usually do when I write a think-piece but only because what do you say to a generation of women convinced that men’s oblivious opinions about their bodies are fact, religion, even a code to live by. Body positivity, or on the extreme body shaming, are as a result of society’s attempt to define what’s beautiful and what’s just not; there are no in-betweens. The same society coined the saying, ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder’ so I can’t speak for its ‘mental capacity and sanity’. How do you tell all women they’re beautiful when we are almost always classified as a prejudicial extreme? A large majority of us do not love our physical image because society told us to look like Audrey Hepburn or Madonna or Gigi Hadid or [insert celebrity white girl of average height and even less weight]. Let’s take a simple poll, ladies. How many of us, at a younger age, dismissed certain career dreams because puberty hadn’t really come through for us or we hadn’t really lost the weight for the part? We live in a world where you only see ‘fat’ or ‘ugly’ people on the street or bizarre shows about extremely obese people struggling with weight. So you can understand why I didn’t go tooting my horn right after this piece’s photo shoot. Then a week later, I read this amazing piece by a friend [https://myloveintended.wordpress.com/2017/05/05/scared-to-eat/] and I had to write this. Reading her experiences which mirrored my own, I suddenly felt the real reason I wanted to write this post come back to me, lucid and not easily ignored.
How about a little backstory. I’m what they call a big girl; I’ve always been on the heavier side; even during my childhood. I often gained famed nicknames such as Miss fatty fatty and kanono. To them, it was playful but to me it just hurt. I was born this way. I’ve always been fat and in my youth you didn’t see many heavy people on TV unless they were the clown of the show. Even nail polish and toothpaste ads used size zero models. So from a young age, society steered me towards losing the weight. I heard things like, “You have a pretty face but that….” or “You know if you lost the weight you can wear this or look like me” It was depressing, it still is. In my adolescence, it occurred to me that some girls are sexy and others were smart. I took the crown in the latter, the rest could fight over who’s sexy. But that is not true. It was just a way to avoid conforming to a stereotype that I did not fit into. Showing off my body was a problem. Oversized jeans and sweaters became my thing. However adulthood began to show me there is more to life than looking like what they tell you is beautiful. With that, I began to shed my insecurities one by one; even had the stuff to model for a friend. DIY By Moe It wasn’t simple to love myself and all that came with it but eventually it pays off.

Let’s start small, my friends. What is this body shaming? Body Shaming, according to various internet sources, is simply the action or practice of humiliating someone by making mocking or critical comments about their body shape or size. Knowing that, let’s take another poll. Who has experienced said body shaming? In this day and age, I’m confident the results show staggering numbers in favor of body shamed females owing to society’s changing standards. If you’ve been asleep or highly antisocial over the last few decades, let me so graciously fill you in. There was a time, men preferred us tiny, size zero with minimal fat and absolutely none hanging out of your clothes. Then it was maybe they should be tiny still but with some fat in the bosom area; maybe a B-cap or a C-cap in the extreme, the rest is fat. Then the Age of Thick dawned upon us, where men weren’t so bothered by the fat as long as it was concentrated in the buttock and bosom area and jiggled to the extent of their satisfaction. The rest was fat. As you can see ‘fat’ is considered a horrific characteristic; Men do not like it so women strive not to be it. In my opinion, body shaming is just another incarnation of misogyny. What really gets me is that you don’t hear these things from a man cause a man knows what he wants and if it’s not you or your size, he and his misogyny move on to the next one; he doesn’t necessarily go around telling women they don’t fit his description of beautiful unless he’s a real misogynist. What gets to me the most is that you’ll hear them from other women in the cruelest ways. Your girlfriend will suggest things like “stuff your bra, your bosom area is looking too small” “You need butt implants or the squat challenge.” “I saw this diet [insert celebrity name] is trying and I think it will work for you” “Try this, it will make your skin lighter.” We all have that friend or group of friends that feel like your body size or type or complexion does not match the group [cause apparently we all need to be in that clique where all the girls are light, slim with big booties] that keep trying to get you to change. Those are not your friends, but I am!

Fat vs. Skinny

One societally fat girl to another, I need you to understand that I am not condoning an unhealthy lifestyle but body positivity. Your weight loss journey will be miserable if you don’t love yourself first cause at that point you’re not doing it for yourself, you’re doing it for this ‘society’ that has imposed age-old restrictions on you; as a woman, more importantly, a fat woman. I hated that word ‘Fat’ and the Swahili translation for it ‘nono’ even more. I think it stems from the childhood nickname ‘Kanono’ which still casts a shadow on my life now especially when it’s part of a rejected man’s cat call. It caused me to be painfully aware of my weight at all times, especially in the presence of lighter weighted people. They don’t have to actively make you aware that you are the biggest person in the room, you’ll feel it when your slimmest friend, XX complains about ‘her oversized pot belly’ while only having a bunch of grapes for lunch. You, on the other hand, are genuinely hungry, ravenously at that and that combo cheese burger meal you’re eating won’t even satisfy the hunger, you still want a whole pizza. Stuff like that makes you want to start your diet with the next meal even though you’re unprepared to lose weight and you thought you looked fine when you looked in the mirror this morning. So naturally, you cheat on your diet heftily, worse than most of these men do on their wives. Because the diet reminds you of why you started, which in itself is a very depressing reason [To look like XX]. You find yourself looking for new avenues, so you try the gym but you quit after a few weeks or days because the motivation to lose weight does not come from within you. Then you decide to go with easier routes like those slim teas and waist trainers advertised by women who frankly would be better-suited advertising plastic surgery. You soon find out ‘Naturally Slimming Teas’ are just overpriced over-the-counter laxatives that let you eat whatever you want but give you hell when food is on its way out. [Reasons why weight loss teas are bad for you] And that waist training isn’t good for you seeing as you’ll look amazing but you will have acid reflux, skin irritation, problems breathing, bruising and a ton of other stuff you probably would rather live fat without. [Dangers of Waist Training] [You’re mad they don’t put this stuff on the package, me too!]

On the flip side, we have the ‘skinny girl’. A societally fat girl will always assume that the body shaming prejudice is only against her. But with the Age of Thick Booties and Tiny waists, this is not the case. Your adorably slim friend is also worried that her back side does not look like yours; she doesn’t want your stomach area though. That girl gets called a stick, a lollipop behind her back, but like we all do; she pretends not to hear it. She is overloading on food that probably leaves her uncomfortably full, with crazily unnecessary levels of cholesterol and the looming risk of heart disease. [Being Skinny is no Guarantee of a Healthy Heart] She hears things like “have a banana, some potatoes etc. They go straight to your butt or boobs.” “That would look better if you got some implants to make you look bigger” Sitting there, you realised like I did, there are no in-betweens; you either look like Kylie Jenner or Taylor Swift. And even though both women are beautiful, one is considered more beautiful than the other because she attracts more male attention. So even slim girls are their own kind of ‘fat’ in the eyes of society.

So girls, what have we learnt? We learnt we only hate our bodies because other people hate our bodies. In this society, ugly turns to hot and right back to ugly in a matter of days or weeks. So why should we base our self-esteem and the makings of our attitude on an ever fluctuating standard of beauty? Do we not live in an era when a woman’s worth is measured by parameters that do not necessarily relate to her ability to make men happy or aroused? You are not a snack to be baked to perfection and eaten, or an erotic novel to be written perfectly and passed around for amusement. Neither are you a piece of art to be stared at for pleasure? You are a human being; much like every man who ever belittled you based on your physical appearance. You have dreams, goals, and careers that are not correlated with your appearance or men’s opinions about you, don’t you?

So why don’t we just love ourselves either way! Because Sister, you’ll find that the social prejudice does not end. When you attain the ‘perfect body’, they’ll want you to have perfect hair (Do not even get me started on the afro/weave shaming; I never know which one they’re shaming). Then to dress perfectly for them, not too scanty, not too conservative. Then they need you to learn how to make up your face, cover the blemishes and the acne and make your eyelids smoky. Then you need the perfect man to marry you all while not being too forthright when trying to get him to marry you. Then you must raise the perfect children because messed up kids apparently have messed up mothers. Then you must keep off aging to a level that keeps your husband faithful even though men cheat anyway. Issa Rat Race!! Men are greedy creatures, they want it all. They will change the standard on you while you go through that butt implant surgery and make overbites the new thing. You cannot win with society’s standards, you can only satisfy yourself by loving your body before you begin to modify it. Love yourself; love another fat girl instead of body shaming her behind her back and most importantly, be Enlightened, Be Empowered Be EmmBoldened!!!

Like this:

In this world, at my age, you see things that you never cared to notice before. Such as the fact that most people your age are dating or married and the realization that soon it may be too late for you and your love life (Even though this is a perpetually irrational fear, we give into it) So in this world, women my age, we get a little stupid and even more naive. No really! Hands up if you have realized mid-relationship that there was no relationship. Hands up if you have had to be the one to bring up the ‘What are we’ conversation. Hands up if at the end of that conversation you still weren’t sure of where he stands. *Waves all hands high* Ladies with your hands up, this one’s for you. I will attempt to mend your heart before it breaks and teach you how to spot the noncommittal fuck-boy who is out to waste your time before he denies the obvious. If your hand didn’t go up, take some tips home; share a link for a sister in need.

The first sign, you’re always overcompensating for your flaky man. You invite him everywhere but somehow something always comes up. You find yourself calling him a few too many times or writing texts with a curse word too many only to cool down and forgive when he gets back to you with some half-ass apology and an even weaker excuse. You find yourself making up excuses for him to friends and family, sometimes even to yourself. “He’s probably busy” He’s. Not. That. Busy! You are constantly reminding yourself to be patient with regard to his promises. All your relationship doubts are calmed by something you had to say to yourself to fill in the gap his half ass left. If I have just described you or your recent musings, Smile! You’re single but also being played.

You avoid comparing him to other suitors – Another great sign. All your friends have settled for their soul mates and you’re all still relatively young so relationships are in their sweet spot. Your girlfriends are being flown out of the country to exotic islands; getting gifts that you usually have to buy yourself; getting proposed to in fancy restaurants and obviously having love-children with their soul mates. But your fuck-boy (Read boyfriend) is still acting like you’re in the ‘we just met’ stage. He’s never invited you anywhere and he never buys you anything. Unfortunately, it’s not because he can’t afford it. You know he can. He’s just got a new car; he’s drinking with the boys every weekend and housing a few of his deadbeat friends, he can afford to buy you lunch or a pair of earrings (Or whatever girls like these days, personally I love food). But he doesn’t. Why? He doesn’t care; about you, the relationship, your future. Girl, Listen; Run as fast as those heels can carry you! This man is obviously wasting your time. A man will fight to show you how much you mean to him; it has been that way since the dawn of time. So if you have to ask (or even worse beg) for appreciation and pampering from an able man; then you are better off using your energy searching for a man who appreciates you of his own volition.

So now you’re super frustrated. You’re apparently a cuffed lady who has to live single. Actually, you were happier when you were single. (Girl I get it.) You confront him as any sane person would do. Maybe bring up the ‘what are we’ discussion again. Chances are you will begin to have one-sided arguments with this fuck-boy (About everything). Because he simply can’t defend himself, he doesn’t engage you rather he lets you rant, rave and shout to yourself then proceeds to tell you what you want to hear. Cause you know mid-rant, you probably began crying or whining like a child that just needed a hug. It is at this weak point he chimes in with words you want to hear. “I’m sorry. I’ll try harder. Blah Blah Blah” Girl! Do. Not. Fall. For. It. A real man will never make you tell him what he needs to do, he just knows. He knows when he messes up, he also knows how to fix it. Find a man lacking any of this knowledge, he is a Fuck-boy (No exceptions!). Please exit stage right and your soul mate awaits.

This is another big one. Honestly, I think this is an obvious one but I wouldn’t want to be partial when giving such advice. It is a red flag more conspicuous than the Communist flag or your white bed sheet on Aunty Flow morning. There are all these women your ‘supposed’ man is associated with. He talks about them all the time, even when you’re in front of him. He’s always texting them. He has no problems buying them lunch or drinks but these are ‘supposedly’ not dates. Sometimes, he even houses them. Now, I don’t know your man. But even if all these friendly women are taken, chances are he wants what you want just not with you but with one of these random women. You are a human placeholder for another woman. A man knows that his woman is the most important woman in his life. If you are not the most important woman in his life, then I beg to reason that you are not really his woman. He won’t admit it, so it’s probably best you see yourself out of the relationship.

If somehow you’re unable to remember these signs, here comes the mother lode. This is the obvious one, the Holy Grail if you may. Ladies, if you have to ask, the answer is probably not what you want to hear. If you have to ask ‘are we dating’ or ‘what are we’ or the ever dreadful ‘what’s going on between us’, then you have your answer already. Pick up your overnight bag and go get you a play toy, because girl, you are single. A real man will leave you in no doubt of the place you play in his life.

I probably offended a few ‘cuffed’ ladies with this piece, because maybe you just realised you are single. (I’m not sorry, your man is a Fuck Boy tho) Maybe I even reinforced your misery by ending your relationship before it started. Now you’re in that ‘I’m single and men are trash’ rut. I know it all too well, been in it for years. But it shall pass. You mustn’t settle for a Fuck Boy that’s how you start this mess any way. The only way to avoid these Fuck Boys is to be the strong unwavering independent woman you are. Don’t you dare lower your standards for no man. Do not dare tame yourself because of what a man said or did to you. The species derive their social power by keeping women like you and me down; convincing us that strong women like us never find love or judging us for living our lives just as they do. Weak women are Fuck Boy candy. Your light should not, will not be dimmed when you find your soul mate, it will only burn brighter in the presence of real love, remember that!

Like this:

When I was younger, much younger, there were two simple distinctions in human beings. You were only one of two things; a grown-up or a child. Growing up, I never really felt the difference between being born female and being born male. To young me, it was just random allocation like being born with a birthmark someplace; it didn’t really matter. My male friends and cousins and I were never really that different to me at that age. They were just like me, kids hobbling across the earth laughing at silly things.

Then at the age of two and a half, I joined school. Sometimes, I wanted to wear shorts to school. I don’t know why! For a change maybe. It never really made much sense that boys wore shorts and trousers while girls wore skirts and dresses. Still, it didn’t seem like much distinction to my infant brain. Again, I assumed gender was a just small distinction in my life. At that age, we played rough games with boys and enjoyed them as much as we would playing Mud house games with girls. We were just kids, innocent and pure. Hobbling around, discovering silly things

I remember Standard 3 a little too vividly. I had just joined a new school, a preparatory (It sounds fancy but I still don’t know what exactly that means.) New places, new faces, new slang, new fads, new culture. I don’t know if it was the new school or the age we were at but something changed. I was suddenly made aware that life wasn’t all easy and hustle free. I was a lady in the making. Believe or not, It began with an elder schoolmate pulling aside from a parking lot football game ( I loved being the goalie!) and proceeding to let me know that it was uncouth and damn near barbaric that I, in my sky blue school dress, was parading myself in front of these boys. That the only reason I thought I wanted to play football with them was to get their attention and attraction. Attraction was a loaded word when I was in Standard 3 like adolescence or reproduction. Suddenly, I was uncomfortable being myself in that parking lot. I felt exposed, naked like my dress was too short or my hair was too shaggy. I didn’t know if I wanted the attention. I was a child I couldn’t possibly discern my emotions at the time. The truth is my dress wasn’t too short, my hair was always nappy and shaggy and those boys didn’t care that they were playing with a girl; they were just happy they had a big goalie. Needless to say, I have never played football since. I began hobbled around overthinking silly things.

My Standard 5 teacher must have regarded herself a saint, ranking with the Mother Teresas’ when she said this to us. She called a female forum one lunchtime. We were crammed into a classroom while the female teachers hovered around us and silenced for some life advice. Then the saint stood before us and proceeded to tell us that we NEEDED to be careful how we carry ourselves especially *wait for it* around our fathers. Yes! She said that we were and I quote, “Too old to be hugging our fathers. Or even be in a room alone with them.” That If we kept ‘being close’ to our fathers, then we would be raped. Yes! I left that room knowing that if I hug my father then I shouldn’t be surprised if he rapes me. I was smart then but not that smart. Naivety was still a close friend of mine. So I stopped hugging my dad. (And I really love my dad) I became obsessed that all men wanted to rape me and if I gave them a chance, they would. I was always on the lookout. I would not be left alone in a room with men and if I was I lamented until this was corrected. I was now hobbling on, paranoid about silly things.

I begged my parents to take me to boarding school when I was around 11, mostly because I hate housework. They obliged. Boarding school reinforced this distinction between how we treat girls and boys. Even though our school was ‘mixed’, we did everything with a measure of distinction. We never saw things from the same perspective even though we were all age mates going through similar life experiences. I was now at the age where girls were blamed for boy’s lack of control and wayward boners. I remember one weekend two boys took to fists and kicks all in the name of a fair lady. Of course, there was a disciplinary meeting but it was only attended by us, girls. We were accused of stuffing our bras to attract boys (We did not! Ok, a few did but that was hardly a reason to carry out a physical inspection of our breasts in an open field like we were prisoners hiding contraband after Family day in the Yard). We were taught how to little ourselves so we would not distract the boys’ education. We weren’t to sing in class, our sweet voices distracted them. We weren’t to walk too fancy (I don’t know what that meant but I believe they implied that there was a limit to how much sway your hips could have.) We weren’t to unbutton the top button on our shirts no matter how hot it was, our soft skinned flat chests distracted them. Our jeans were too tight, our skirts were too short and our shirts too translucent. Oh, and my favorite, they made us all buy bras at 11 even though you were as flat chested as the boys you were protecting. They also blamed the girl for the fight. I have never seen a better expression of female oppression than I did that day on her face. Given she was asleep on the other side of the school in the girls’ dorm when two dimwits decided to decide her fate over a brawl. She didn’t even desire any of them. She had just matured earlier than us all. She had hips and breasts at 11 but that was hardly her fault. She was punished. The boys, nothing, not even those who fought for women. (Yes! This kept happening.) We made ourselves more conservative for the sake of the minds of young men, too fragile to control themselves, too privileged to be taught how to. They didn’t care that the boys played a perpetual game where the one who spanked the most of us won. We just hobbled around boarding school, worrying about silly things.

As we lived in boarding school, we began to grow up, become women and men. Adolescence, they called it. By standard 8, the proportion of those who had hit puberty tramped that of those who had not. (You already know I had not) As we grew, we floated apart and girls banded together to gossip while the boys banded together to ogle at us or whatever else they laughed about behind our backs. We began to realize that some of us were prettier while others were smarter (the latter did not matter much) at the time, beauty became something you work at. I found myself alienated because I did not want to learn how to use makeup, or texturize my hair or shorten my skirt. I learned that women should be malicious and conniving and we were always meant in perpetual competition. Who’s smarter, who’s prettier, whose parents are richer, and who gets the most male attention? Everything was a competition and I was losing. It became harder to keep female friends. It wasn’t hard making them because it was always a plot. Suddenly I was introduced to a stereotype that I did not fit into. A stereotype that I grew to hate, which at the time meant to hate all women. Now I was stumbling around, caring about stupid things.

I have to say, I was excited to join high school at first. It meant primary school was over. No more bullying, silly competition and gossiping, right? Wrong!! I was bullied more than ever. People loved to make stuff up about the introvert and spread it around. Don’t even get me started on silly competition. That didn’t really matter, I was used to it. My first function out of school, however, shone a light on something that had never bothered me before. That puberty we talked about earlier, she visited me all of a sudden in the first year of high school. From the infamous flat chest, I moved to a double D cap. I had no sports bra phase, it was horrifying. The worst part was watching boys I had known a long time ogle at my chest. Most just conversed with my breasts. (Yes! We see that!) It carried on to be a large part of my life, men talking to my breasts instead of me. A discerning factor even but not something I believe I should have to go through. From a young age, I have had to tolerate men’s blatant objectification of me. Always having to prove that I am more than my breasts and thighs. But here I am stumbling by, noticing people do stupid things.

Growing up hit me hard after high school. All the ‘You could be great’ speeches changed tone and message. First, ‘you should be great but remember your family life. Your family life depends on you!’ Then, ‘you are great but are you a good wife? Can you cook for your future husband? Can you clean a house after he ignorantly walks around? Can you pick his clothes off the floor he left them on and clean them the way he likes it? How much dowry will you fetch? When you will be ready to put yourself second and help your man succeed? Are you moral enough to be a wife? Will you make him happy?’ Suddenly, the subject of my life and all I do is the man who I am yet to meet. I am not only judged for all my actions, I am judged with respect to this fictional character I am not sure exists yet. I wonder if he is receiving this pressure. Does he have to go home every weekend to assure his people he can still cook chapatis? Does he stay in on Fridays because he may embarrass himself out of a good future wife? Does he not eat breakfast even though he can afford it to look good for me? Does he have to explain to relatives why he lives alone yet he is childless and unmarried? The answer is No. Because apparently he was born with that privilege. The privilege to never second guess playing football. The privilege to never worry about what he is wearing and how it makes other people feel. The privilege of hugging both his parents throughout his life without someone putting insane prejudice in it. The privilege of growing up not having to worry about tempting others. The privilege of having care-free, competition-free relationships with other men. The privilege of never catching a woman sexualizing you in the open. The privilege of following his dreams and his career wherever they take him without second-guessing how it will affect me in future.

I do not have that privilege, never have. Yet those that have all their lives fault me for being a feminist. From a young age, it’s always been about what I shouldn’t do because girls don’t do that or how I should think because I am a woman. Let me just confess in the case of all those memories above it felt like I was being told that I think too big, feel too big, act too big, for a girl. It felt like I was being told that I am on this earth to compliment the male; we cannot be equal, or equivalent because you are second. It’s not just the memories these things are subtlety whispered to me throughout my life. And they call me a feminist but I just know that it’s not true, it’s not right and it’s not fair. So yes, I guess I must be a feminist because I refuse to think smaller, I can feel no smaller than I have already been made to feel and I can act no smaller for the male than I already have. I will settle for no less in my life but equivalence. Even on the smallest scale, I wish for the day that we realize it’s not about being equal, but being equivalent, of the same importance. Maybe, we teach men to control themselves from a young age. How about we don’t allow them to get away with stupid things like objectifying women the minute they hit puberty. How about you let women live their lives without assuming the greatest thing she could do is reproduce and cater for a man. How about we stop fighting all the time amongst ourselves for stupid things like male attention and admit that every woman is different.

I know we love to call feminists in this country bitter. But can you blame us? Between the culture that glorifies men and the misconstrued religion that belittles women, a woman could easily feel oppressed in this country. And it is just absurd that you expect us to take some of these things in 2017. And that’s not even touching the deep issues like rape, FGM, domestic violence and the trafficking of women; all of which are a problem in this country. Why do you still hate the feminist? Matter of fact, why aren’t you a feminist! How are you guys OK with this! Feminism may be in its third wave but a lot needs to change in Africa for some of these global goals to pan out.

Like this:

In this land of red, green and black, crime isn’t new. It isn’t rare either. A phone here, a purse there, a wallet here is not something to exactly tremor about. It happens, we say. However for most Kenyan females, one specific crime scares us straight and tearless. Rape! I know that many of us ladies would rather die or be completely penniless after a robbery than have a stranger steal the most sacred and secret part of you. I know I’d trade everything to give home untouched, as pure as I left. But sadly, we are not all so lucky. According to statistics, one in four Kenyan women are raped every year. Even with this large number of rape victims only a handful ever visit the hospital or the police station after the ordeal. Rape and defilement remain widespread but somehow muted issues in our community. Even with the publicizing of some monumental cases of rape and defilement through the media and all the subsequent debate, some ladies are still bared down by their shame and other heavy emotions that come from such an ordeal they find themselves unable to come forward to seek both help and eventually justice. I understand these women to some extent.We would always rather not recall such gruesome events at all. However, in the interest of his next victim and the one after that, surely we must say something, do something in order to change how things are.(Or at least ensure that one rapist is off our streets) To do that first, we inform ourselves!

What is Rape? What is defilement? And when can you assert with certainty that such a crime has been committed against you?

Rape is, simply, sexual intercourse with an adult without valid consent. Defilement constitutes sexual intercourse with a minor below the age of 18. The key word here is valid. So Uhmm No, sir that drunken slurry unrecognizable mumble does not count as valid consent. Intoxication and unconsciousness invalidate sexual consent as the party may not be fully aware of their actions or their consequences. If you don’t recall giving clear and valid consent, then you are a victim of rape. Don’t panic, keep reading!

What do you do when you have established you are a victim of rape?

First things first. Find a safe place to stay, preferably far away from the offender. Call some one you trust such a family member or a friend. Alternatively, call a rape hot-line you know of. if you don’t know any, well what are you waiting for! Follow this link to a number of helplines in different towns in Kenya which are useful for not only rape but other human rights violations.

Next, you must preserve all physical evidence of the assault. This means; Do NOT take a shower, bathe, eat, drink , wash your hands or brush your teeth until you have been examined by a medical practitioner. Save all the clothing you were wearing during the incident as is in a paper (not polythene or plastic) bag. You also should seek medical attention IMMEDIATELY. Many of the worst health side effects of rape can be mitigated or treated if the victim is able to get medical attention fast enough. Also, professionals are able to take appropriate steps towards the prevention of STI transmission from the offender to the victim and also subsequent pregnancy. So even though you may not want to report the matter to the police, it is still very important you see a doctor as quickly after the incident as you can. Where you suspect that you were drugged (date rape), ask your doctor to take a drug test to confirm or deny the same.

Then, write as much of the incident as you remember.Try to ensure you leave out no details. After this, it is important for you to make a few decisions such as whether to report to the police, tell your friends and family, what effect the news will have on your family, et cetera. To make these decisions, I recommend you call the help line again. These foundations have professionals who deal especially in such cases and will understand as well as shed some much needed light on your situation and the way forward.

Finally, even though you may not be open to publicizing your ordeal, the help and listening ear of a professional such as a counselor. What you went through was in no way your fault. Not your dressing, not the way you walk or speak, not your hair, just not you. People say ‘Bad things happen to good people’ which is true but it is also true that ‘BAD PEOPLE DO BAD THINGS’. It is not your job to tone yourself down just in case a predator somewhere can not control himself. Women may be smarter but men have brains too and in a perfect world, you wouldn’t have to pay for his lack of self control.However, this world is far from perfect and sometimes bad things happen to undeserving people like you and me. So the best we can do is get up dust ourselves off and move forward. And maybe one day, when enough women have spoken out the penalty for this offense will be some punishment worthy of our collective innocence and pain, and of those that suffered before us and those before them.

How I avoid potential rape?

First, always remember that rape never was, never is and never will be your fault. So if you were to be raped, it is 100% the rapist’s fault. You can avoid the danger,

but in the end, there is nothing you could possibly do that would cause or justify this act. The next is to stay safe in social situations. This involves being aware of your surroundings at all times especially late at night and early in the morning. Avoid using electronics while alone; they distract you and make you an easy target. It also involves not leaving your food and drink unattended in public places. It is also advisable to travel with a group of friends and stick together. Ladies, there is strength in numbers.

You must also be assertive while in public. Do not let cat-callers and the like turn you around, confuse and intimidate you. Ensure that you keep sensitive personal information off social media sites and in private. Be careful even with verbal sharing such information, as a significant fraction of rape victims already knew their rapists before the ordeal. Always ensure you travel with at least one fully charged phone so that you are able to call for help in times of emergency. Trust your instincts; Women have excellent gut instincts and you know ‘if it quacks like a duck…’ When you feel trapped, you are advised not to settle or give up. Make an effort to shout and scream as loud as you can for as long as you can. Draw as much attention as you can to yourself.

Changing your dressing or cutting your hair short is not a credible way to deter rapists. It has nothing to do with that. If you own a self defense weapon, carry it only if you know how to use it. Last but not least, look out for a sister today, tomorrow a sister will look out for you. Do not ignore potential rape situations involving another female. Try to intervene calmly if the situation has not yet escalated to violent or call for help immediately if it has.

What can you do to help?

Well, the first is to be informed; which now you are. The next would be to inform others. Share this helpful information with your friends. You never know who you’ll help.
Basically, Be enlightened, Be empowered, Be emmboldened.
Signing off,
Emm